


Sword, Shield, Healer, Scry

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Demons, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Light Angst, Mission Fic, Sorry Not Sorry, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:16:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: In the heart of a raging storm, the Musketeers must face off against an unworldly enemy powerful enough to kill them all.





	Sword, Shield, Healer, Scry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An entry to the June/July fetes des mousquetaires writing prompt challenge “It was a dark and stormy night…” . You can find the contest in the forums on ffn.
> 
> I did some lazy Wikipedia research and discovered the origin of the phrase is part of the opening line to Edward Bulwer-Lytton's 1830 novel, "Paul Clifford," about a highway robber during the French Revolution. I decided to use the entire first sentence to start off my fic. . . And then it just goes sideways from there!

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets, rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Anyone with good sense or pure intent had settled in for the night, drawing shutters against the storm and hunkering down beside a well-stoked fire, fortified by a lover’s embrace or a bottle of strong spirits. The night was not fit for man nor beast, yet fouler things roamed long after all good creatures had said their prayers and gone abed for the night.

She had called down the storm, her powers returned enough now that she could again pull wind and rain from the sky. She slipped out of the cave and down the rocky hillside, all but invisible in the inky darkness she had cast about herself. Tentacles rippled from her black skin, pushing obstacles from her path and giving her purchase where no human would have been able to descend. The prison they had thought to keep her in had been her salvation - no man ventured up to check the seals that had been placed. No one had noticed when she had lured the child, the one with goats who had come from the other side of the mountain, close enough to her prison to convince his malleable mind to cut away the last of frayed ropes holding the signets in place. She had consumed him greedily, flesh and bones, body and soul. He was small but pure, and he was more than enough to fill her again after so much hunger. She ate his flock of goats too, the blood of any living thing adding to her physical body. But to grow in power, she needed the hearts and souls of men.

So she descended against the wind and rain, vulnerable in her weakened state yet driven by an insatiable hunger. The storm would keep the strong ones at bay, the ones that could actually harm her. She did not have the strength yet to enter past their barred doors, to break through their prayers of safekeeping, but she could prey on the weak and frail, the outcasts who would have no shelter in this soul-withering storm. She slipped from the rocky slope and slithered over the green fields, drawing shadows around her as she entered the village.

xxxXXXxxx

D’Artagnan pushed the tavern door closed, shutting out the rush of wind and rain and quieting the chorus of disgruntled voices as patrons near the entrance protested at the blast of cold wet air. He had been to the stables to settle the horses for the night but near as it was he was drenched head to toe from the wicked weather. He pushed his wet hair back from his face and was already unbuckling his leathers as he made his way back to the table his friends had claimed toward the back of the room.

The inn was more crowded than one would expect at this hour but with the howling wind and sheets of rain, men seemed reluctant to leave this haven to make lonely treks through sodden streets back to their own homes. There was something comforting in the warm bodies huddled around tables and the cheer of the fire that staved off a nagging feeling of loneliness and desperation that D’Artagnan had been fighting since the rain had begun. He had not felt this in months, but memories of his father’s death had risen up as soon as the violent had rain started and the mud began to swirl beneath his horse’s feet. He was glad his friends had chosen a darkened corner to occupy as even the firelight seemed to aggravate the headache blooming between his eyes.

“You’re soaked,” Aramis said, looking up as he approached the table.

“It’s raining,” D’Artagnan replied, stating the obvious with a smile that reminded them he had been the one sent out in the storm by them to check the horses.

“You need a hat,” Athos responded drily, taking up the bottle of wine and filling the cup waiting at D’Artagnan’s empty place. 

Aramis stood and moved aside, making room so D’Artagnan could shift to the seat beside him. A hand on his shoulder however stopped him from progressing further.

“Take this off,” Aramis said, ordered really, as the marksman grasped one of the sleeves of D’Artagnan’s doublet at the wrist and pulled downward with a forceful tug. The wet leather had molded around his arm and Aramis pulled hard again to get it to release.

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan protested, “Stop undressing me in the middle of a taproom.” Beside him, Porthos snickered into his cup.

“He’s done a lot worse in the middle of a taproom,” the big man smiled mischievously up at him. 

Aramis had gotten the first sleeve off and was now fiddling with the second when the door of the inn slammed open and a crowd of men pushed through, shouting for the innkeeper and shoving into the room. The Musketeers were on their feet immediately, making their way to where the men gathered around one of the tables. D’Artagnan shrugged himself back into his uncomfortably wet doublet. He elbowed his way between the frightened patrons to stand at Athos’s side. His breath hitched at the gruesome sight before him.

Laid out on the large wooden table were the remnants of two bodies - a man and a woman, although the shredded clothing was the only thing that could really identify them as such. They were both rendered open from throat to groin, their innards eviscerated, parts trailing from the bloody cavity. Their limbs were withered and painted with black lines that ran the course of where their veins might be. Their flesh mottled and burned. Their eyes were missing, their open mouths held no tongues. They were mere carcasses, empty husks of what had once been people. D’Artagnan fought the urge to be sick. Others in the room did not succeed, and the room was full of the sound of retching and wails and whimpers of loss and fear.

“Who were these people? Where did you find them?” Athos’s voice cut through the din, authority ringing clear and settling the roar. 

“That girl looks like Marie,” a young woman called out as she made her way closer to the table where the bodies were laid out. She was a pretty brunette with a dress cut too low to be anything other than a working girl, deep pockmarks from some past disease marring one side of what would have been a pretty face. She reached out a trembling hand but could not bear to touch the corpse, “She was one of Madame Demont’s girls,” She added softly.

“Found her in the alley,” a large man said, “No God-fearing person would have business there on a night like this,” he said gruffly, “Devil came to take his own.”

“Yeah,” Porthos said with a smile, “And what were you doing in the alley then? Bein’ a God-fearing man yerself, of course?” The challenge was clear but if the large man thought to take it up something about Porthos’s matching size or the fierce men by his side kept his lips sealed.

“The other one?” Athos asked. Another rain-soaked man came forward, hat in his hands, grey head bowed.

“That’s Luc,” he said with sadness in his eyes, “Worked in the stable. A good lad. Didn’t deserve this.”  
There were murmurs of agreement in the crowd. 

“Athos,” D’Artagnan said quietly, “I was just in the stable, that man helped me put the horses to feed. This has only just happened.”

“Was it animals?” someone called out, “Did a bear come down from the mountain?”

“Brigands!” another person shouted. The crowd began to grow restless as they speculated what might have done this. 

Athos stepped forward.

“Form up in groups to patrol the streets. Bring any villagers you find back here. No one should be out alone,” there were murmurs of agreement and Athos continued, “Leave some to guard the tavern. We don’t know what we are dealing with or how many and we can’t leave these people defenseless.” 

“We have to hunt down whoever did this!” someone shouted out. 

“Leave that to us,” Athos said, his tone dark and pointed. Reassured that it would be the King’s Musketeers taking on the responsibility of protecting them, the men circled around, discussing who would patrol and who would stay behind. 

Athos scanned the crowd, then waved over the innkeeper. He was frazzled little man, his hair sticking out at odd ends and his hands restlessly wringing the corner of his dirty apron. 

“Do you have a priest in the village?” Athos asked. 

“Yes,” the innkeeper answered, “Father Andrea. He has a cottage behind the church.”

“Fetch him,” Athos said, “These people need last rites.” D’Artagnan raised a brow to that and noticed Aramis’s eyes narrow. Athos was not one to worry overly much about anyone’s soul once it had departed from their body and he never did like priests overly much. The innkeeper acknowledged the request and called over a young man to give him instructions.

The plan settled, the Musketeers regrouped by the door, taking their sodden cloaks from the pegs and preparing to go out into the storm again. The gathered closely together, finding a moment for a quiet word.

“You sent for a priest - you know what this is?” Aramis asked immediately. Athos drew in a deep breath, unrest behind his usually placid eyes.

“I have seen this once before - the burned blood, the victim disemboweled..” Athos trailed off, glanced away from them for a moment, but not before D’Artagnan caught a glint of something hollow in his eyes. It was just a moment, then Athos, stoic and unreadable as ever, turned back to them, “This is the work of a Greater Demon,” he said. 

No one spoke. There was no such thing, only rumors and myths and it was unlikely they had ever been anything more than the church’s attempt to scare its flock into submission to its rule. Now Athos was saying they were real, and in fact, this was not the first one he had encountered.

“That is not possible,” Aramis breathed.

“You must trust me,” Athos countered, eyes steely, “This creature is incredibly dangerous. If it got in here,” he indicated the crowded room, “It could make short work of them all. They are fast, deadly and powerful. They will need the protection of that priest.” 

D’Artagnan ran a hand through his hair. It had been one thing to learn to hunt the witches - the people with unmastered powers that caused havoc in a world that had forgotten such ability existed. Sometimes they conjured or attracted dark creatures as familiars that guarded their masters. But Greater Demons? D’Artagnan had learned to trust Athos but this was madness. By the silence of his other two companions, D’Artagnan thought they might be considering the same. He looked over to Aramis to find him and Porthos exchange a glance and a nod. Porthos put his hand on the pommel of his blade.

“Alright,” Porthos said with a shrug, “How do we kill it?”

“The same way we kill everything,” Athos said, “With steel, fire, and Power,” Athos looked at Aramis, “Pistols will slow it down but not kill it. You will need blades,” Aramis acknowledged the instructions. “We’ll start at the stable. D’Artagnan can Track it.”

“Athos, if it is that powerful . . .” Athos cut off Aramis with a wave.

“D’Artagnan is ready,” he countered, “and we will be with him.” Aramis didn’t look particularly pleased, but he offered no further protest.

“Be careful,” Aramis said, raising a finger to D’Artagnan, “Tracking can go two ways and if the beast is as powerful as Athos believes, it will Sense you as you Sense it. Do not let your guard down.”

“I know,” D’Artagnan reassured Aramis. He did know. He had been training for months now, Athos had earlier today praised his Tracking skills. He was getting better and better. He was almost ready for his commission. He would not let them down.

The men pulled on hats, and D’Artagnan raised the hood of his cloak over his head. This storm was not going to help them. 

“Take care,” Athos cautioned, “This will not be easy,” He extended his hand to the center of their group, they placed theirs atop his like spokes to a wheel. “One for all,” Athos said, and D’Artagnan felt a surge of Power through their hands, “And all for One,” they replied, a flush of warmth rushing up his arm to settle in his chest. 

They were linked now, they could find each other through the spark they had ignited. Sword, Shield, Healer, and Scry. The four of them together were the deadliest combination in the Musketeer regiment. Man or Demon, they would bring this creature to heel.

Athos pushed open the door and they made their way out into the terrible night. 

xxxXXXxxx

The stable was washed in the gore of the dead man, the horses wild-eyed and stamping restlessly at the scent of fresh blood. Fleshy globs of something were splattered everywhere, most likely remnants of the man’s entrails, but not nearly enough was left to account for the entirety of the man’s missing innards. D’Artagnan swallowed, fighting down the urge to be sick, lips pressed tightly together. He glanced at the others who had arranged themselves around the barn. Their faces were taut yet D’Artagnan knew they were not unaffected. Aramis had crossed himself as he stepped upon the scene while Porthos stood motionless at his side, alert and on guard. Athos had crossed the barn and checked the back exit before turning to face them, body tense and face shadowed from the thin lantern light by the broad brim of his hat. Seasoned soldiers as these men were, this was a horrific scene even for them.

A quick search of the barn revealed their quarry had moved elsewhere. D'Artagnan spared a moment to comfort his horse, stepping into the stall with her to run soothing hands over her neck and murmur soft words. She tossed her head and nickered into his palm. She would not truly settle until the scent of blood was scrubbed from the place. D’Artagnan wished he could tie her outside but the raging storm would be worse than leaving her frightened and anxious in the barn. It was a small thing, the fear coming from his mount, but it resonated with his own. D’Artagnan took a steadying breath and gave the horse one final pat. Schooling his features, he returned to the others gathered at the center of the barn.

D’Artagnan looked at Athos who gave him a curt nod and directed him to stand in the center of the barn where the dirt was dark with the stain of blood. He drew a deep breath and then another to calm his mind as Athos had taught him. 

“With care, D’Artagnan,” Aramis said quietly, a reminder to reach gently for Athos had said this was a dangerous thing. 

With his third breath, D’Artagnan extended his arms by his sides, pressing his palms down and closing his eyes. He could feel the thrum of power that grounded him to the earth, sensed the spark in his heart that was his tether to the other three men. He pictured in his mind a door with lock and a slim iron key. With his mind, he turned the key and cracked the door open slightly. He could see with his inner eye ghostly images of the stable where he stood, his friends etched in white light, the horses a pale green, the non-living things receding to grey. He opened his eyes and the images stayed layered atop the corporeal forms before him. He looked down, blood-red light pulsed at his feet. He gently raised his right arm, palm pressed forward and began to turn in a slow circle. His arm was like a compass needle but instead of searching for true north, he searched for the power of the creature.

D’Artagnan had never Scryed for something of great power. He knew to be cautious, but he also knew it was up to him to find this monster and keep it from killing more innocent people. He pushed his senses outward, beyond the barn, into the streets - his mind giving him images of his power like white lines of light radiating out from the barn where he stood. He continued his slow spin until he felt a tug. He shifted slightly and - there. He stopped and rotated his wrist so his palm was face up, sending his power in one direction, a flowing white line tracing a glowing red one back through the village, through the streets, to the edge of the fields, back to its source.

There. He had it. It was finishing off its kill, a man, already dead. There was no trace of the man’s soul - the godly power resident in all men - the beast had devoured it. It was growing. D’Artagnan felt the power pulsing and writhing under his touch, growing hotter, denser. He took in a deep breath and sensed it’s hunger and desperation. As powerful as it was, it was weak still. It was frightened. Frightened of men like him who had imprisoned it before, frightened it would be found before it had grown in strength, before it... no, she... before she could gather enough power to spawn.

The creature looked up.

Red burning eyes flicked over the fields, she sniffed the air. D’Artagnan knew she sensed him, knew she was looking for a pathway back to him. He left the tiniest of tethers, the thinnest of lines he could imagine and started to retreat his senses back to himself, back to the barn, back to his corporeal self. 

As he retreated, he felt something resisting, something tugging him back. He pulled harder and felt something wrap around his own power, burning red vines clinging to his rope of white light. He pushed down with his left hand and drew more power from the earth and pulled harder, he began to slip free. The creature screamed, trying to keep hold of him, trying to follow him back or pull him to her, but he was stronger. He fled her reaching tendrils and she howled - then a red pulse of light bubbled from her center. It pushed outward like a wave washing across everything in its path. It came at him fast and hard, knocking into his senses and overwhelming him. All he could see was a blinding flash of red, his body was enveloped in burning pain and the thin white line of light was stretched to a thread. He writhed in pain yet fought to keep the thread from breaking while the storm raged outside in a clash of thunder and lightning that shook the walls of the barn.

It all stopped - like water dousing a fire. All was blackness and quiet in his mind, the sudden silence jarring after the storm. But he knew this feeling. Knew that he was protected, his mind Shielded from any threat. D’Artagnan took a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

“D’Artagnan, you alright?” Porthos stood in front of him, hands on his shoulders, face tense with concern. D’Artagnan blinked and gasped, trying to find control over his own body again. He felt off-balance and leaned forward into Porthos’s hold, knees buckling.

“Whoa!” Porthos said, shifting to grab D’Artagnan by the belt and ease them both to the ground. The warm darkness that was Porthos’s Shield receded and immediately D’Artagnan felt bereft. His cheeks flushed with shame as he sat in the dirt panting and helpless, resting against Porthos’s shoulder. He had failed them, and worse, he had left himself vulnerable to attack. He was not ready for this, he was too weak, too small. He felt tears rising and fought to control himself.

“D’Artagnan,” someone grabbed his face between their hands, “Focus, you are alright.” 

Aramis. It was Aramis. 

No, he didn’t need that. He tried to push him away with hands that would not obey but his power did, his mind-door now closed. “No, let me in,” Aramis breathed. D’Artagnan could feel him, the pressure of cool blue light that was his friend, their Healer. “Don’t make me force you,” Aramis pleaded, “Let me help you.”

They had done this many times before, Aramis stepping inside the open door of D’Artagnan’s mind to soothe hurts, to boost him when he had expended too much power, to put him to sleep when he was wounded. He didn’t know why he was resisting now - it felt like a war in his mind and his fear wanted him to barricade the door against Aramis’s intrusion. Aramis must have felt it too because the tether they had placed earlier tugged, glowed, warmed. It was comfort and peace and strength. D’Artagnan stopped trying to think and just let instinct take over. The instinct to follow these men to the ends of the earth and into Hell itself. He opened the door.

The cool blue that was Aramis’s touch immediately soothed him. He felt the fear and shame dissolve even as his mind grounded itself back into his body. He had control of his limbs again, his tongue, his breathing. He took a deep breath, then another. Felt Aramis breathing too. He opened his eyes to find Aramis looking at him, face etched with worry. D’Artagnan raised a hand to place it on Aramis’s forearm.

“I’m alright,” he said, voice steadier than he thought it would be, “Thank you,” D’Artagnan managed a thin smile. Aramis sighed, visibly relieved, and slipped a hand behind D’Artagnan’s neck to give it an affectionate squeeze while the other he ran over his own face, damp with sweat.

“Thank God,” Aramis said, “That was unexpected,” he added. 

D’Artagnan realized he was still being supported by Porthos, Aramis was holding on to him as he might faint, and Athos simply stood staring down at him with a dark and unreadable look. He had failed them utterly.

“I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan swallowed the lump in his throat, “I know I can do better —“ 

“No, no, D’Artagnan,” Aramis cut him off, “That was not you. That creature, she did that to you, left the fear in your mind, left it unable to control your body,”. Aramis shifted back on his haunches, looking up at Athos, “I’ve never experienced anything like this,” he said, “Bits of it were all over him,” Aramis shook his head and looked away, bothered by whatever he had encountered in D’Artagnan’s mind. 

D'Artagnan himself could not really remember much between his allowing Aramis to enter his mind and then his release - nothing but a cool touch and a blanket of calm. He suspected Aramis had taken with him some of the memory of the creature he had stripped from his mind. But no one was there to do that for Aramis, he had to suffer with whatever it was he had experienced.

“I need to find it,” Athos said quietly. The swordsman straightened up and put a hand on the pommel of his blade, looking pointedly at the three of them. Aramis pushed himself up to his feet, face incredulous.

“D’Artagnan is the only true Scry among us and look what it did to him,” Aramis was angry, “We can’t risk him again, and none of us can Scry like that. Certainly not you.” D’Artagnan felt like there was more passing between the two men than the words they were sharing. 

“Then what else do you suggest,” Athos challenged, jaw tight, eyes flashing dangerously. 

“I have the tether,” D’Artagnan called out, “I can Track it,” he added. All eyes turned to him. 

“What do you mean?” Aramis asked.

“The tether, I held it,” D'Artagnan explained even as his mind tugged lightly at the silvery thread still attached to their quarry.

“Through all of that, you kept hold of it?” Aramis raised a surprised brow. D’Artagnan shrugged.

“Look at that,” D’Artagnan could hear the smile in Porthos’s voice that went with the hearty thump he gave him on the back. He looked back at the big man and gave him a grateful smile. Porthos looked up at Aramis, “I told you he was strong,” he said smugly.

“I never doubted his strength,” Aramis answered with a contrite nod to D’Artagnan in case he needed an apology for it, “But I am shocked you were able to do that.”

“It was instinct,” D’Artagnan said, “I just held on.” 

Aramis offered D’Artagnan a hand and helped pull him to his feet as Porthos stood behind him. D’Artagnan felt oddly refreshed and suspected Aramis had had a hand in that as well. It explained the weary creases around the marksman’s eyes. Aramis was very strong, but Healing always came with a price.

“You must be very careful it doesn’t follow you back again,” Aramis warned.

“A light touch,” D’Artagnan replied, “You have told me this. You all have,” he added with a sigh, “I mean I do listen.” Aramis and Porthos chuckled. 

“Let’s go get a monster,” Porthos said slamming a fist into his palm in a happy gesture of the mayhem he hoped to cause.

“No,” Athos voice sounded loud in the barn, “I”m going. Stay here with the boy, we can’t risk it finding him again.” D’Artagnan bristled at being called a boy, and was about to tell Athos he wasn’t going to be left behind but Aramis beat him to it.

“Are you insane?” Aramis said stepping in toward Athos, “You are not going alone.”

“It is strong and dangerous, you said it yourself,” Athos said coolly as he slipped on his leather gloves, “And not worth the risk to all of you,” Athos looked past Aramis and met D’Artagnan’s eyes, “Tell me where to find it.”

“Athos, I don’t think —,” D’Artagnan started but Athos cut him off.

“That’s an order,” Athos ground out between tight teeth.

“A stupid one,” Aramis spat back, grabbing Athos by the collar and giving him a little shake, “What is this madness? Do you want that thing to kill you?” Athos gave a grunt and a shoved Aramis backward a step. The marksman straightened and moved to step forward again, but then Porthos was by his side, a restraining hand on his shoulder. Athos fumed darkly at them both.

“What’s this about?” Porthos’s words were surprisingly soft. D’Artagnan stepped forward to flank Porthos on the other side, curious to understand why Athos was acting so recklessly. The swordsman’s dark eyes flicked to his and D’Artagnan recognized sorrow, not anger, in their depths.

“Step aside,” Athos’s calm tone was unnerving.

“Not happening’” Porthos answered, just as unfazed as Athos. 

D’Artagnan had never seen a stand-off between these two before. Aramis was perpetually argumentative and defiant. But Porthos? This seemed extraordinary. It must have been to Athos as well because had it been Aramis, the two would have been arguing vehemently until one of them stormed from the room or Porthos had to intervene lest it came to blows. Aramis didn’t like to follow orders and Athos didn’t like to be denied - but this was different altogether. This had nothing to do with Athos’s role as their Lieutenant - something more deep and personal was at the root. D’Artagnan could feel it.

As stubborn as these men were this could have gone on all night but D’Artagnan felt a surge of relief when Athos took a step away from them, shaking his head in dismissal of the situation.

“You don’t understand,” Athos said with urgency in his voice as he turned back to face them, “I’ve fought this before. It is strong and unrelenting. I can’t allow...I won’t --” he stopped himself, looking for words. Athos ran a hand over his face and took a breath, “I will not lose another brother to it.” D’Artagnan heard the sorrow underneath Athos’s legendary control.

Another brother? D’Artagnan was confused. The Musketeers had never encountered a greater demon before, at least it was not known by Aramis and he had been in the regiment longest.

“Thomas?” Aramis said softly. Athos pursed his lips together, jaw working but said nothing. A small dip of his head acknowledged the truth to what Aramis said.

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Porthos asked.

“There was no point,” Athos said with a great sigh, “It was done, Thomas was dead, I’d killed the demon. I left that behind with the rest of my past when I became a Musketeer. But to have this here now...” 

“Who was Thomas?” D’Artagnan had felt the weight of the name, had seen the reaction of the others. He needed to know. They stood in a tense silence and D’Artagnan wondered if anyone would answer.

“Athos’s younger brother,” Aramis finally answered for their Lieutenant who was clearly struggling to keep his composure. “He told us he had been murdered, but not . . . not this,” Aramis too seemed overcome. It might be that his abilities were tapping into the grief that Athos was broadcasting but Aramis was so disciplined it was not likely. It might just be that their deep affection led them to share each other’s sorrows. D’Artagnan certainly felt something hollow echoing in his own chest to see Athos so full of despair.

“It attacked us in our home,” Athos said, having finally regained his composure, “We were not prepared and I . . . I was the one that let it in,” Athos hung his head, overcome by memories or grief D’Artagnan did not know but it was unnerving to see their unflappable lieutenant in such distress. Athos gathered himself again and raised his head, defiance again springing to his eyes, “I will not lose any of you to this thing. I defeated it before and I can again, but I can’t do that and protect you as well.”

“You will not be protecting us,” Aramis said, something dangerous and determined in his voice, “We will be protecting you, mon ami,” Aramis stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Athos,” We are not the young, untrained men that you were then. We are Musketeers, all of us,” Aramis added with emphasis and D’Artagnan knew he was included in that statement, “You know we will not allow you to fight this alone. We will do it together like we fight everything else,” Aramis finished with determination, extending his hand to Athos.

Athos had schooled his features as he listened to Aramis, face unreadable as was his wont. But after a considered moment, he took the hand that Aramis had offered him. The two men shared a half embrace, interrupted by Porthos who thumped Athos affectionately on the shoulder. D’Artagnan joined them, a nod of acknowledgment from Athos saying he would not be left behind.

“Alright, D’Artagnan,” Athos said, a deadly gleam in his eye, “Where do we find it?”

“Follow me,” D’Artagnan replied with a proud grin yet his countenance was as menacing as the seasoned men behind him. He would not let them down.

xxxXXXxxx

They paused beside the side of a barn, sheltering as best they could beneath the eaves from the torrential rain. The wind howled, drowning out their conversation and sending gusts of water sideways across their faces. They huddled close together to hear each other better.

“It is here, very near,” D’Artagnan said over the wind, “I think it’s killed again. It feels stronger than before.”

“You are closer to it,” Aramis added, “You will feel it more.”

“Drop the tether,” Athos said, “In this proximity, it will feel you too. It is too dangerous.” D’Artagnan nodded and in his mind’s eye opened his hand to drop the glowing thread that had connected him to the creature even as his corporeal hand made the same gesture. Mind and body were connected and they were more powerful when they could work together.

“Porthos and I on point,” Athos ordered, “D’Artagnan on my left. Aramis, flank Porthos,” the men nodded and began to ready weapons, “Remember, the only way to kill it is to remove the head. You can weaken its abilities when you weaken its corporeal form. Press the attack no matter what,” Athos turned toward D’Artagnan, “Do not lose your focus to the fight, your mind is more vulnerable because it made a pathway there already. Head over heart, do not forget it.” D’Artagnan nodded. They had been sparring like this for a long time now, and D’Artagnan was ready to put his skills to the test.

They stepped from under the meager shelter they had taken and were hit full force with the raging storm again. Water dripped into D’Artagnan’s eyes and the wind pushed at his body. He fell into place a pace behind Athos and to his left as instructed. Aramis mirrored him on Porthos’s other side. They were all solid fighters, but in this situation, Athos was the most powerful. Not just the best swordsman in the regiment but the strongest attacker of them when channeling power through their blades. Porthos’s skill the most unusual - he was their shield. He could not wield power, but he absorbed it and deflected it when it was thrown against him or those under his protection. 

They turned a corner and fanned out across the broad street that ran near the edge of the village. The storm was violent and blinding and it was difficult to make out much besides the outlines of the buildings closest to them. Shapes loomed in the blackness only to resolve into stacks of crates or a wagon missing a wheel as they grew closer to the objects. A brilliant flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the entire street. A young girl stood in the middle of the road, ragged and drenched something unidentifiable lumped at her feet. They moved closer and another flash revealed dark stains down the front of the shreds of her dress her arms reaching out to them in a plea for help. As they came closer they could see the shape at her feet was human, another gutted corpse staring up at the girl with empty eyes. No wonder she was terrified.

They stopped not three paces from her, on alert for the creature that had just killed here. They scanned the darkened buildings, the rooftops. The rain and clouds making it difficult to make out what they were seeing until lightning flashed again. They moved apart, starting to shift around the girl.

“We’re here to help you!” Aramis called out above the storm. They were close enough now to hear the girl’s sobs, wails of despair and fear. “It’s alright, come here!” Aramis called. The girl remained rooted where she was, too terrified to move.

As they tightened the circle around the girl, D’Artagnan felt as if his skin were being pricked. He sensed that danger was near, the beast they hunted was close. Through the soulbond, they had triggered he could feel the same in his friends. Athos always said that power knew power. They could sense the demon, but that meant it could sense them too. More lighting revealed nothing more on the street. It had to be in one of the buildings. Watching them and waiting for an opportunity, for the moment they were easiest to attack.

D’Artagnan watched Aramis across the circle from him. He neared the girl and then with a final look around him, crouched down so he could lift her in his arms. She scrambled into his hold, wrapping her legs around his waist and clinging tightly. Aramis was vulnerable with the child to protect - he could not fight with her in his arms. He would have to break from them to move her to safety but there was no choice. The marksman turned from D’Artagnan making his way toward the shelter of the closest building. The girl raised her head from where it was nestled on Aramis’s shoulder.

Her eyes glowed red.

“Aramis, no!” D’Artagnan called out, breaking into a run to get to the marksman even as he realized it was too late. The figure in Aramis’s arms morphed and changed. Its body lengthened and blackened, arms and legs replaced with multiple tentacles like the drawings of sea creatures that marked dangerous waters on maps. It was no longer a child that Aramis was holding but a writing beast of many moving limbs that were wrapping thick and fleshy bands around his torso, arms, and legs. Even as Aramis struggled, D’Artagnan watched his blades fall from his hands as the beast wrapped its tentacles tightly around him.

Porthos bellowed, moving in toward the creature in a fury of flashing steel trying to cut the limbs holding Aramis. Athos rushed in closer, looking for access to the thing’s center to strike a deeper blow. A tentacle shot from the beast and it wrapped around Athos’s ankles, pulling him to the ground. The swordsman landed on his back, momentarily stunned as the creature pulled him closer. 

D'artagnan leaped over the hollowed-out corpse on the ground and brought his sword down hard on the tentacle holding Athos. His blade sliced through cleanly but the portion around Athos’s legs began to crawl up his body. D’Artagnan pulled his main gauche, hacking through the limb even as Athos struggled to unsheath his own dagger and do the same. 

Finally free of it, D’Artagnan pulled Athos to his feet, the swordsman hastily retrieving his rapier from the ground and turning to face the beast again. 

It had grown as they had struggled, raising up above them supported by more of its writhing limbs. It held Aramis aloft, he dangled limply in its grasp, the fleshy tentacles wrapped under and around his body and looped over his neck. Below it, Porthos had managed to rend at least four of its limbs from its body. It seemed to be in a standoff with the big musketeer - unable to retreat with its prize but still strong enough to defend itself.

“We must strike the center of it,” Athos called out over the storm, “Where it is most vulnerable.” 

“But Aramis…” D’Artagnan started to respond by Athos cut him off.

“No! We have to kill it now!” Athos shouted, “Porthos has its focus, now move!” 

Athos barrelled forward, dodging the limbs seeking to ensnare him and D’Artagnan followed closely on his heels. He pushed the horror of what was happening to Aramis out of his mind and concentrated on protecting Athos so he could get in close enough to strike it a mortal blow. Athos surged into the midst of its tentacles, blocking, parrying and slicing anything that came near him. D’Artagnan had no time to admire the man’s uncanny skill as he was kept busy protecting Athos’s back and keeping himself from being caught as Aramis had been. Together they were a blur of flashing steel and fury as they fought into the core of the demon.

With a great cry, Athos made a strong thrust into the solid mass of the thing's torso. It was no ordinary blow as the air hissed with the crackle of a burning power and Athos’s blade glowed white and hot as he sliced it again into the belly of the creature. The demon howled and thrashed, even as Porthos on the other side continued its assault on its limbs. With an inhuman wail, it pulled all of its tentacles in toward its body, dropping the marksman in the process. Porthos shifted to stand over Aramis’s prone form as red light pulsed from the creature’s center, as it had when it had followed D’Artagnan’s tether. The light broke around Porthos and Aramis. Protected by Porthos’s Shield, no unwanted power could reach past him nor could it affect him or anyone in his immediate proximity. 

D’Artagnan and Athos were another story. The red power smothered them. D’Artagnan heard Athos cry out as it engulfed him too. But D’Artagnan as ready for it this time. His mind pushed back, a green fire bubbling from him and pressing against the red. He didn’t know how to control it, he just worked on instinct and pushed, gathering an image of a shield in his mind as he had been taught to gather a door or a key to access his power. He widened his shield, encompassing Athos in its protective circle.

Released from the demon’s attack, Athos straightened and with a deep battle cry thrust his sword high, into what had to be the creature’s neck. It screamed and flailed its many limbs as Athos forced the blade deeper and pried it open from the inside out with white fire. Athos had tremendous power and D’Artagnan had never seen anything like this. Athos cleaved a gully through the beast and filled its belly with burning light. With a mighty shudder and a scream of agony, the demon fell to the ground, body and limbs shriveling to thin ropes of blackened flesh. Porthos surged forward and with a mighty blow sundered the demon’s head from its body and the thing began to melt into the mud of the street.

They stood panting and breathless in the pelting rain, shocked at the size and power of the thing they had just killed. D’Artagnan had never felt more drained. His knees buckled and he sank into the mud, leaning on his blade to stay upright. In front of him, Athos swayed, unsteady on his feet but pushing himself forward.

“Aramis!” the ragged cry came from their Lieutenant’s lip. He stumbled the marksman’s side and dropped to the ground. Porthos joined him, rolling Aramis onto his back and pushing his hair from his face. D’Artagnan pushed himself up with the help of his rapier and staggered over to join them.

Aramis lay prone and lifeless on his back, blue lines glowing beneath his skin painting his face and running down his neck. 

“Athos, what is this?” Porthos said over the storm.

“Demon fire,” Athos called out, “It is burning his blood from the inside.”

“What do we do?” it was not like Porthos to have fear ring in his voice. D’Artagnan had never heard of demon fire, but Athos seemed to know exactly what was going on. 

“I don’t know,” Athos said, reaching out to feel the life pulse at Aramis’s neck. “I am surprised he still lives,” Athos uncharacteristically let his hand linger on Aramis’s cheek, “He’s so strong, he’s fighting this,” Athos looked up at Porthos, desperation in his eyes, “but I don’t know how to help him.”

“Can’t we help him heal?” D’Artagnan asked, falling exhaustedly to his knees beside Athos. Aramis’s ability was healing but when it was he who was wounded they were able to lend him some of their powers to aid his recovery. All of them could do simple things outside of their core abilities. But Athos shook his head.

“It is like a poison,” Athos said, “It will run through his system until it destroys him. Healing only slows its progress.”

“There has to be something,” Porthos growled, “We can’t give up,” The big man put a hand protectively on the top of Aramis’s head and took up one of his limp hands in the other. The blue lines on Aramis’s face pulsed and the marksman let out a pained breath.

“What just happened,” Porthos’s eyes were wide in confusion. Athos bit his lip, considering as he ran a hand over Aramis’s brow. There was no response from the marksman. D’Artagnan looked hopefully between the two of them. Athos was brilliant, there had to be something.

“Your Shield,” Athos said, finally looking up at Porthos, “Your gesture when you took his hand. It was protective. You pushed power and he reacted.”

“But I can’t direct my power,” Porthos said, “It just happens.” 

“Your power is not the same as ours,” Athos said, “In fact, it is almost the opposite. While we draw power to us, you repel it. That makes your shield. Your mind can push outward and push power away from us, not just you,” Athos drew himself up on his haunches, gaining more energy as he began to express his idea, “What is in Aramis is the demon’s power. You can push it out.”

“But I can’t,” Porthos said in frustration, “I can’t control it, I can’t be that specific.”

“But I can,” Athos said, “We will do this together,” Athos looked up at Porthos, “Trust me, this will work.” Porthos still looked dubious, but he nodded. “Put your hand here,” Athos indicated the center of Aramis’s sternum. Porthos let go of the marksman’s hand and placed his palm at the center of his chest. Athos put his hand on top of it. “Now push. With your body and with your mind.”

“I’m gonna hurt ‘im,” Porthos looked horrified, “break his ribs . . .”

“Porthos, he’s dying!” Athos called out, “You can only help him,” Athos positioned his other hand on Aramis’s forehead, “Now push! With body and mind. Think that you are pushing the poison out of his body.” 

Porthos clenched his lips together and D’Artagnan saw his body tense. He pushed and beneath their hands Aramis stirred slightly, more pained sounds slipping from his lax lips. After a moment both men sat back.

“It’s working,” Athos said frustrated, “But it’s not enough. I’m too weakened from the fight. I can’t direct the shield deeply enough,” Athos looked up at his friend, “I’m sorry,” the swordsman was heartbroken.

“No, no, no...try again!” Porthos repositioned his hands and looked beseechingly at Athos. The swordsman didn’t move, but blinked the rain out of his eyes and looked sadly down at Aramis. “Try again!” Porthos snarled, “Dammit Athos,” Porthos reached out and grabbed Athos by the doublet, “Aramis would not give up on you so easily. Don’t you dare give up on him.” The men stared at each other until Athos nodded, yes he’d try again. 

Repositioning their hands, they tried again. D’Artagnan could feel Athos’s power pricking at the edge of his mind. D’Artagnan’s abilities were like Atamis’s, he could draw and channel power. Could he not also help to push Porthos’s power as Athos was doing? He leaned forward, putting his hand on the top of the other two. 

They felt it immediately. A surge of strength that bloomed in their soulbond and then pulsed outward through their body. D’Artagnan pictured the pulse of light traveling down into his arm and pushing into the warmth that he knew to be Porthos’s shield. The power surged as he felt Athos do the same. Porthos doubled down, pressing hard against Aramis’s chest. The marksman struggled against them, arching his back, his limbs flailing. Something shifted beneath Porthos’s hand and D’Artagnan heard a distinct crack but they continued, pushing Porthos’s power through Aramis’s core and chasing out the demon fire that had been consuming him. 

They all felt it the moment it released from Aramis’s body. All resistance to them stopped and the marksman fell back heavily to the ground, going limp again beneath their hands as the blue lines faded from his skin. 

D’Artagnan slipped forward, half falling over Aramis’s legs, utterly spent. Athos slumped forward, his head on Aramis’s chest, immobile but for his heavy breathing. Porthos seemed the least affected. He put one hand protectively on Athos’s back and reached with the other to feel for Aramis’s pulse at his next. D’Artagnan watched him, worry gnawing at his gut that despite all their efforts, it had not been enough. He was comforted though when Porthos let out a relieved exhale.

“He’s alive,” Porthos said, shifting his hand to give Athos’s shoulder a squeeze. He turned and smiled at D’Artagnan, “He’s too stubborn a bastard to die is what it is,” Porthos laughed. A hearty and completely unexpected sound. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile and even Athos raised his head to look up at the big man as he lifted his face to the sky and let out a victorious whoop that even the howling wind could not drown out.

xxxXXXxxx

D’Artagnan’s memories of their return to the tavern were spotty. Porthos had carried an unconscious Aramis slung over his shoulder leaving him and Athos to help each other back to the inn. They had hot water and more blankets brought to their rooms, then helped each other strip off wet leathers and clean up minor hurts from the battle with the demon. Aramis remained unresponsive and cold, very cold. They forgoed a bed for a pallet on the floor before the hearth. The last thing D’Artagnan remembered was Porthos pushing him into bed and telling him not to worry, that Aramis was going to be fine.

Of course, they didn’t know that. Not at all. It might just be the same sheer utter exhaustion that he and Athos were experiencing after expending so much power during the battle with the demon. Or it might be something else, something darker in Aramis’s mind that trapped him there or some deeper damage done by the creature. No one but Athos had even seen a greater demon in scores of years, nor did they know of any tales of someone surviving demon fire. Without a Healer who could reach into Aramis’s mind, they could not do anything for him but make him as comfortable as possible. Worried and unsettled, D’Artagnan drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

xxxXXXxxx

He awoke to a darkened room lit only by the flickering glow of the fire crackling in the hearth. The rain on the windows was a staccato beat, but it was calmer than the raging storm they had faced. D’Artagnan pushed himself up in the bed and ran a hand over his face. His body was still tired and had the ache of muscles that had been overused, but his strength seemed to have returned. He shifted from the bed to kneel before the figure sprawled before the fire. Aramis had turned to his side, head pillowed on his arm and the blankets kicked down past his waist. D’Artagnan placed a hand on his brow and was happy to find the flesh warmed from the ice cold he had been when they laid him down. Carefully so as not to disturb his sleep, D’Artagnan pulled the blanket back up over Aramis’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but run an affectionate hand over the marksman’s head and was rewarded by a soft, contented sigh as Aramis shifted slightly under the blanket. He seemed to be just sleeping normally. D’Artagnan was relieved.  
“You saved him, you know,” Athos’s voice sounded softly in the darkness. Startled, D’Artagnan looked up to find Athos seated at the small table in their room, his feet extended on the vacant chair beside him. Now that D’Artagnan’s eyes had adjusted to the low light, he could make out the swordsman clearly where he had seen only shadows when he woke up. “I wasn’t strong enough,” Athos continued, a slight slur to his words. D’Artagnan rose from the floor. He noticed the bottle in Athos’s hand and the two empty ones beside it. “I’m never strong enough,” he added before taking a swig from the bottle.

“Where’s Porthos,” D’Artagnan asked as he shifted closer.

“Downstairs,” Athos waved a hand, “He needed more lively company after what happened.”

“It must be nearly morning,” D’Artagnan said, surprised at Porthos’s stamina.

“You slept through the morning,” Athos said, “And all of the next day. There’s supper somewhere if you want it.” 

“I’m starving,” D’Artagnan said, looking around until he found the covered pot of stew and the wrapped loaf of bread on the edge of the hearth by Aramis’s feet. He helped himself and then moved back to the table where Athos ungracefully moved his legs from the one other chair.

“Aren’t you hungry?” D’Artagnan asked between mouthfuls.

“Ate already,” Athos said.

“How long you been awake?” D’Artagnan wondered if the man had slept at all.

“Not long,” Athos said.

“Long enough to have finished those,” D’Artagnan said with a nod to the empty bottles.

“To be fair,” Athos said, “Porthos did help with the first one.” Athos took a long drink then shifted forward in his seat to rest his elbows on the table. He passed the bottle to D’Artagnan who poured some wine into an empty cup.

“What’s this about you not being strong enough,” D’Artagnan was tired enough to speak his mind, “That thing was . . . unearthly. No one could defeat it alone.”

“No, I suppose not,” Athos sounded bitter. D’Artagnan glanced up from his food to see Athos staring off into the distance, his eyes bright in the firelight.

“This isn’t about Aramis, is it?” D’Artagnan said, putting down his spoon and pushing the bowl away, “It’s about Thomas.” Athos didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him, only took another sip from the bottle.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” D’Artagnan pressed, “How did a greater demon even find you to begin with?” Athos signed and shifted his gaze back to his protege.

“It found us because I let it into the house,” Athos said darkly, “and I didn’t tell you, any of you, because it is my greatest shame.”

“You let it in?” D’Artagnan didn’t understand.

“I married it,” Athos growled as he hurled the wine bottle in his hand into the closed door. It shattered on impact in a spray of glass, sending stains of red running down the back of the door. D’Artagnan sat dumbfounded, while on the floor Aramis shifted and murmured something incoherent. 

“I don’t understand,” D’Artagnan finally replied.

“They shift shape,” Athos seemed to have regained his composure, “I did not know what she was until it was too late. I found her over Thomas’s body, he had been gutted just like the victims here. That’s how I knew what it was,” Athos explained.

“How did you kill it?” D’Artagnan prompted.

“I didn’t. I was able to subdue it with power and wound it greatly, but I left it with the church to be disposed of. I couldn’t do it myself,” Athos looked away uncomfortably, “She retained her form, the shape of my wife, of the woman I had loved . . . “ Athos ran a hand over his face as if trying to scrub away the memories.

“Do not tell the others of this,” Athos said, sitting up and leaning forward again, “My past is something I want to leave buried. Do you understand?” D’Artagnan didn’t like being made privy to secrets that the other two did not know but he was not about to deny Athos his confidences. He nodded. “Good. Thank you,” Athos added.

They sat in silence until Athos rose and dug around in his saddlebags, procuring this time a flask of spirits. He took a long drink and then passed the flask to D’Artagnan as he sat back down.

“Let’s talk about your performance yesterday,” Athos said, a complete change of tone and subject. D’Artagnan hung his head, he had been worried about this.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I know I should have been more careful, it shouldn’t have been able to follow me back like that.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. You handled that fine,” Athos said with a dismissive wave, “I’m talking about everything else.”

“Everything else?” D’Artagnan thought he had done well other than that. He didn’t know what Athos was referring to.

“When we moved in to attack the demon after it had released Aramis, you shielded us, you repelled its power,” Athos explained. D’Artagnan nodded, he remembered that moment too. “Then,” Athos continued on, “You were able to join with me to use your power to move Porthos’s force through Aramis. You pushed power.”

“Yes, but those all worked,” D’Artagnan said, confused. “I thought I did alright. I can practice and get better.”

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said smiling, “You should not have been able to do that at all,” Athos put a hand on his shoulder, his gaze fond and proud, “Your power is like Aramis, a Scry draws power, like a Healer. You pushed power, which is my skill, as a Sword. You repelled power, which only a Shield can do, like Porthos. Within you, you have all of the gifts, and that my friend is a rare thing indeed.”

“But what does that mean?” D’Artagnan asked.

“It means, with proper training, you have the potential to be the greatest of us all,” Athos gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, “When we get back,” Athos said, shifting back in his chair again, “I’ll talk to the Captain about your commission. Now, why don’t you go find Porthos? It’s about time we got Aramis off the floor, don’t you think?”

As D’Artagnan dressed in the dark, he couldn’t help the smile that was blooming across his face. He was overwhelmed by the praise, but also by the responsibility. Athos believed in him, all of them did, and he owed it to them to become the best Musketeer he could. And if that meant mastering all of their abilities, so be it. He shrugged into his leather coat and knew that one day soon, there would be a pauldron to add to it. With a fond glance to Aramis, who somehow was still sleeping, he slipped out the door to retrieve their fourth. 

In one dark and stormy night, everything had changed. Finally, D’Artagnan was to become a Musketeer.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok . . . so I did that! Very curious to know what y'all think. Please let me know if I'm insane or maybe onto something here...? Appreciate your comments and ideas!


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